


Sunlight

by Quyinn



Category: Smosh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Knight Damien Haas, M/M, Prince Shayne Topp, mentions of blood and minor injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29935044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quyinn/pseuds/Quyinn
Summary: “You’re bleeding on my floor, Haas.” The Prince sounds bored as he starts to cross the room. “You should think about asking for help before you fall.”
Relationships: Damien Haas/Shayne Topp
Kudos: 11





	Sunlight

He drags himself off the battlefield. This fight has been won, but the war? The war rages on, as wars between ignorant men, between ignorant kings, do. His entire body aches, limbs heavy and uncooperative. The tip of his sword is dragging along the marbled floors of the castle, cutting sharply through the bustle of the nurses, the injured. The fallen make much less noise. 

Damien smiles, almost beside himself and waves away an approaching medic, with blood smeared over his rough tunic and the medic nods to him briefly before falling to his knees, already grabbing fresh supplies for the next batch of bodies.

He finds an empty space easily enough, forcing himself to walk just that bit further through these familiar hallways, into one of the rooms beyond the grand staircase. He can feel eyes on him. 

Finally, he makes it to the door, the long gash in his shoulder throbbing as the blood drips down his arm in a gentle stream, already soaking his shirt and dripping off his fingertips where they’re curled in a loose fist. He leaves a crimson handprint on the brass doorknob. He struggles slightly into the room, turning the doorknob with one hand, using his good shoulder to wedge the heavy wood open enough to slip through. 

For a brief moment, he debates the ramifications of keeling over there and then. 

Sucking in a breath so deep his bruised ribs scream at, Damien shuffles over to the mirror. The study is predictably and blessedly empty and he grimaces at the sight of himself.

It's early morning, dawn having broken over the grounds not even an hour ago. The light is watery at best, but despite the grime on his face, Damien can see the bruise forming on his cheekbone, the circles under his eyes. 

His hide chest piece is covered in mud, the silver barely even visible. His tunic is in tatters, the maroon material unrecognisable, and his breeches are a lost cause. He laughs to himself, a painful, quiet huff of breath. 

The straps to loosen the hide are slippery with mud or blood, he doesn’t look too hard as he props his sword up on the desk and tugs at them until he’s red faced and the buckles are undone. 

_ This is bad. _ The thought floats through his mind, but he bats it away, unconcerned. The stiff hide doesn’t have much give, but he’s able to slip it down off his uninjured arm, letting it pool at his feet _. _ He gets two fingers in the collar of his shirt and pulls it aside. The cut starts at the side of his neck, coming down in a slightly jagged, deep line to the curve of his shoulder, where the blade had caught on, before cutting through the leather straps of his armour. 

With the hide off, he’s able to lift up his shirt, peeling it away from his stomach to reveal a mess of bruises, a few places where the skin has broken on impact. That’s what he gets, Damien would roll his eyes if his skull didn’t ache, for running into the fray without securing his armour, without wearing  _ all _ of his armour. 

The door creaks behind him and he drops his shirt, drawing himself up to his full height and chastising himself for losing form in the first place. He is a soldier, first and foremost. He balls his hands into fists, but it doesn’t stop the warm blood coating his skin. 

Damien uses the mirror to look over his shoulder to see the reflection of a person he’s meant to serve, meant to protect. Their eyes meet in the reflection and Damien fights a wince as his set shoulders ache. 

“I saw you limp off. Are you hurt?” He says, while holding Damien’s eye. 

“I’m fine. Your concern is touching, Princeling. We all need a moment to recoup after battle.” Damien says smoothly. He breaks the eye contact, reaching for his sword, his muscles screaming at him to squirm.

Limbs heavy with fatigue and blood loss, probably, his fingers refuse to tighten around the hilt, and the sword clatters heavily to the floor. The sound rings out through the room. 

“You’re bleeding on my floor, Haas.” The Prince sounds bored as he starts to cross the room. “You should think about asking for help before you fall.” 

If he was confident that he wouldn’t prove the Prince right and end up across the marble if he moves, Damien would head-butt the smarmy prick.

Something flickers over the Prince’s face when Damien reaches for his sword, now balanced over his boot, and he grunts as he stands up, leaning his weight on the sword like a walking stick, just while the room stops spinning. 

“I forget all you knights are boneheads.” The Prince mutters. “Come into my castle, mess up my floors. Sit down, Haas.” 

“Why the hell do you give a shit what I do?” He whips around to face the Prince and instantly regrets the movement as pain sears from the hollow of his throat to his wrist, setting his skin alight. 

The Prince’s hands are on his biceps, the touch gentle but firm, and he smiles a little when Damien lets out a pained hiss. 

“Maybe I feel responsible.” The Prince forces him bodily back until he's stumbling into compliance, his thighs are against the desk, pushing Damien further back until he sits on the edge of the oak. “Or maybe I give a shit bec-” 

The Prince takes a moment, stepping back. His doublet is streaked with a mud, a little of Damien’s blood. His tanned, clean hands are painted red. “Maybe I give a shit because you are a soldier in my court and you would have died for me for the sake of  _ duty.” _ The Prince hisses out the last part. 

Damien snorts, but the sound turns into a choked off gasp. His chest heaves as the action jarrs his whole body and he tries to clamp down on the cry, but he can feel his eyes filling with tears and the sound that escapes him is more like a whimper. 

He closes his eyes, having had enough of that  _ look _ in the Prince’s eyes. 

Damien hears a sigh, and then the hands are squeezing his biceps pointedly, a  _ “Don’t move” _ muttered in his ear, and then the Prince is gone. 

He sways forward a little at the abruptness, the tension in his shoulders easing a little but a moment later he hears the door creak and close, the Prince nudging his knees apart to stand in between them. 

“Maybe I give a shit because you’re supposed to be my bodyguard. My assassination deterrent.” Damien fights a smile at the pout in the Prince’s voice. There’s rustling on the desk beside him, and he feels the rags of his tunic being gently pulled over his head, the shirt slowly following. The Prince hisses between his teeth as more of Damien’s bruised torso is exposed. “Maybe I give a shit because you’re mine to lose.” 

Damien opens his eyes at that. 

The Prince’s face is so close to his, breath ghosting over Damien’s neck as he wipes a wet cloth over the sweat covered skin, the grime flaking off. 

“Princelin-”

“My name, Haas.” The Prince doesn’t look up as he lights a candle near his medical supplies and starts to sterilize a needle. Damien waits for him to tip a small flask over the cut, grimacing through the burn of alcohol, and to thread the needle, setting the point by the thin skin of his throat, where the cut starts. 

_ “Shayne, _ it would take a very daring opponent to best me.” Damien postures, and he grins when the Prince shakes his head, a chuckle passing his lips. 

“Drink.” 

Damien takes a few deep swallows of the alcohol,  _ whiskey _ he finds out as it burns down his throat and sets fire to his stomach and focuses on the golden crown of the Prince’s head when he finally starts to stitch the cut. His knuckles are probably white on the lip of the desk.

The smell of metal starts to slowly dissipate in the air now that his arm and torso are mostly clear, and he can smell the cheap alcohol with every tug of the thread through his skin. Small grunts escape his lips but the Prince shushes gently and keeps working through the worst of the cut before tying off the thread.

“Hey,” Damien croaks, voice rough. The Prince doesn’t look at him, focused on wrapping his arm and stomach with bandages. He coughs in the back of his throat and tries again. “Hey, Shayne?” 

“Mm?” The Prince glances up at him. 

Damien reaches for his chin, pale fingers leaving bloody smears on his jaw. The Prince doesn’t seem to mind, just frowns a little when Damien cups his face. The action pulls at his injured shoulder a little, but it goes ignored. 

“Who hit you?” He speaks into the quiet space between their mouths, his dry, chapped lips, and the Prince’s swollen, split bottom lip, red and bruising in the watery sunlight. 

“Huh? Oh, that.” He says with a huff, when Damien touches his thumb to his bottom lip.

_ “Shayne.” _

“I watched you kill him.” The Prince’s eyes are wide, quick to reassure, his own hands coming up to rest on Damien’s biceps. “You protected me just fine.” 

Damien tries not to frown. “You _did._ I'm fine." The Prince’s tone turns sharp and fierce. “I’ll prove it when you’re not going to pass out from blood loss.” 

There’s a weird feeling in Damien’s stomach, clenching and twisting. He brings the Prince’s face closer to his, squeezing his knees to the outside of the Prince’s, keeping him trapped between Damien’s legs. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t afford to keep, Princeling.” Damien chuckles. He knows the Prince is referring to a sparring session, but he lets his eyes close just for a moment. The Prince’s eyes are bright and wide, not as innocent to the war as he was when Damien was first assigned to him. 

Their foreheads are touching, the Prince pressing that little bit closer, skin sticking with sweat. They’re sharing air, hot puffs of it as Damien’s breath is still coming in strained pants, and it should probably be gross but the Prince smiles, his eyes closing a little. 

“If you’re this stupid again, I’ll march right out onto that battlefield and kill you myself.” The Prince tells him softly. 

“If you’re stupid enough to think I wouldn’t do anything to protect you, Shayne, you could not be more wrong.” He replies, just as soft, noses brushing.

Damien debates bringing their mouths together, just the slightest touch, to feel the swell of Shayne’s lips against his, but he doesn’t. He focuses on the short hairs at the back of Shayne’s neck, how warm and  _ alive _ he is under Damien’s hands.

Damien’s not sure how long they stay there, in each other’s spaces, blood drying on their hands, the smears left on Damien’s chest slowly flaking off. Shayne’s hands are stroking down Damien’s biceps in steady, comforting movements and the moment between them feels like it could shatter with the next movement. Neither of them dare to move, save for the rise and fall of their chests and the rhythmic stroke of Shayne’s hands. All too soon they will be back to playing the prince and his dutiful guard, and if Damien holds Shayne a little tighter, neither of them mind. 

He can feel Shayne's pulse faintly with his little finger, where it’s hooked under his jaw, and the steady thrum is enough for now.

————————————————

_Know that I would gladly be_

_The Icarus to your certainty_

_Oh my sunlight, sunlight, sunlight_

_Strap that wing to me, death trap clad, happily_

**Author's Note:**

> ive literally never written actual people into fanfic before so this was a bit weird but i did it anyway so take that as you will x 
> 
> my boys have sorta gona OC-ish in this, idk how but they feel like it n its 03:17am so prime time my babies
> 
> the song is Sunlight by Hozier 
> 
> let me know if i missed a tag or anything or maybe comment if you liked the fic :)) 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


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